The Poison Prince

by S. C. Emmett

  Wood slid upon greased runners. A relatively cool, mist-laden breath filled the palanquin, and she was abruptly aware of the smell of her own sweat, the tang of freshening incense from the bridal robe, and other less fetching bodily odors. At least she had been unable to eat, and to swallow more than a cupful of sweet tea before dawn.

  “My princess,” Nijera whispered, her shadow filling the aperture. “Courage, my princess.”

  Sabwone remained still, vibrating with that terrible, will-sapping fear. More shadows, blocking the light.

  “It is her.” A man’s voice— a Shan lord giving the ceremonial statement, first in their barbarous dialect, then in proper Zhaon for her benefit.

  “Good.” His voice. Kiron of Shan, the man she was now supposed to bear heirs for. The filthy merchant who insulted her and spoke of bricking her into a tower. He said something else in Shan, and she expected him to insult her again before turning away and letting Nijera close the door.

  However, he leaned in, and Sabwone’s throat moved convulsively as she swallowed. Sweat upon her cheeks and forehead cooled under questing breeze-fingers, outside air creeping like a thief through a sleeping house.

  “You are not riding to an execution,” Kiron said finally, in his accented Zhaon. Did he speak to Takshin so? “Fear not, ekanha. You are safe, in good hands.”

  How dare he sound…sound so kind? As if she was a shrinking peasant maid, or a beast needing taming?

  Sabwone’s eyes flew open. She caught only a glimpse of him before he straightened and the door slid shut again.

  The lord— one of those who had seen her in Zhaon now confirming she had not been exchanged for another, a false bride— said something short and dismissive in Shan, and Kiron’s reply was muffled but still audible, delivered again in Zhaon.

  “She is a mere girl, and far from home. It costs nothing to be gentle, Suron.”

  Their voices faded, and Sabwone writhed internally. Did the merchant pretender pity her? It was yet another insult she could not answer.

  Still, her hands had ceased gripping each other so tightly, and when Nijera opened the side door again— once the maiden aunt had ascertained that the fabric walls on either side of the passage to the door of the wedding house were taut and no cracks or seams were available for an evil gaze to fall upon a vulnerable bride— Sabwone found that her aching legs were more than equal to the task of carrying her, if not for fleeing.

  The worst was yet to come. Sabwone let Auntie Nijera fuss over the thin crimson veil, making sure the princess was muffled from head to toe. A triple string of golden beads depended from the headdress in front of her, ending at Sabwone’s waist; the dangling shadow was an irritant as well. Her slippered foot met cool, gritty stone. She hardly saw the great slate steps she was hurried up, or the dark ironbound door that swallowed her whole. Darkness enclosed her, an entryway with wooden floors and stone walls, and the first surprise was how much it looked like any other palace hall at home.

  Only now she was married, and there had been no prince or exorcist to save her after all.

  ANGER NOT NEW

  The world narrowed to a blade descending, Garan Takyeo helpless upon his back like a common garden insect. Mrong Banh, yelling like a battlefield general, had snatched up a chair and was menacing two of the trio of assassins; the third, masked as his counterparts, brought the blade down again as Takyeo, his hand finding the slim length of his cane, thrashed under the blow. His good leg shot out, catching the man just above the knee, and the cane’s silver head described a blurred arc before it smacked the flat of the attacking metal, deflecting it another critical few degrees. Up. Get UP.

  It was no use; his leg, protesting harsh treatment, was likely to fail him. Grappling was always his least favorite among the martial arts, though Takyeo had set himself to excel in it as he did all else.

  Or at least not embarrass himself, and it was faintly amusing that it should be what saved him now.

  The knee-strike staggered his attacker, and the man almost fell into the table. A good pot of khang-eng ruined, and for what purpose? To kill a man who wanted no part of what everyone else was chasing, after they had also killed his wife and lamed him in the bargain.

  The anger was not new. What was new was his willingness to set it free, and Takyeo used every scrap he could find, his good heel thumping down and digging in as he sought to roll onto his side. From there he could at least reach hands and knees so he was not spitted like an armorbug upon a pin.

  “Takyeo!” Mrong Banh bellowed, the chair splintering as he sought desperately to keep the other two contained.

  The assassin gained his footing and swung again, but something sailed overhead and shattered upon his topknot. Streams of boiling amber poured down the attacker’s face, wetting his cotton mask, and a high, shattering battle-cry echoed through the teaware shop as a blur moved past Banh.

  It was a Khir merchant in a dun cotton robe, but the man evidently had some training. He ducked under a wild swing, locked the second assassin’s wrist and twisted the blade free. Another teapot sailed overhead, thrown with a great deal of force but little accuracy, and hit the first assassin’s chest. It did not shatter, descending at high speed for Takyeo, who caught its handle with the speed of one who had been tutored in such reflexes from the moment he could crawl. He brought it around, smashing it upon the man’s other knee, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The assassin’s cloth mask, now soaked with tea, moved like a wet sail.

  Metal clashed. The Khir merchant had the second assassin’s blade and put it to good use, engaging the third and freeing Banh, who bolted across the shop for Takyeo. Just what the astrologer intended Takyeo could not say, and in any case it did not matter, for Komor Yala arrived at Takyeo’s side, her right hand low and tense.

  He had seen her at this work before, of course, placed before his foreign wife, Yala’s sharp, ghost-eyed face thoughtless, serene as the Great Awakener’s as that blade— dappled green metal, too short for a sword but too long for a knife— blurred in complicated patterns, driving away edged threats and always, always bending her a fraction out of harm’s way.

  She batted aside the curved shortsword, stepping farther into the arc of the swing in order to throw off the assassin’s balance. Another pair of missiles appeared— teacups, shelved near the door, and later Takyeo realized it was Lady Komor’s kaburei flinging them with scarcely concealed, gleeful abandon.

  Komor Yala’s slippered foot flicked out, deflecting the assassin’s own kick, and Takyeo surged to his feet. His wounded leg buckled but he overrode the weakness, deciding it was no worse than having one limb taken up with a squirming younger sibling along for a game of drag-horse. Another teacup, this one fine-glazed raiku ware, crunched against the assassin’s forehead, and Anh let out a country girl’s whoop at a gorge-bird’s fall.

  Now he could unlimber his sword, with Takshin’s laconic you should go about armed, Eldest Brother ringing in his head. As if his little brother thought he would do anything but, especially inside the Palace.

  Just as the bright blade leapt free, though, Komor Yala let out a short sharp sound of effort and the assassin staggered back, a bright red necklace soaking into his throat-wrappings. The Khir merchant drove forward, bearing the second assassin’s wicked-curved knife with its horn hilt as well as the sword taken from that same fellow, and in his movement was the fluidity of a man born to war.

  Takyeo lunged, his wounded leg thankfully not buckling— not yet, at any rate. “Leave one alive,” he cried in case Yala was disposed to listen, and how it burned that a woman, a foreign woman, was protecting him.

  It was downright unprincely of him to allow it.

  The assassin swiped wildly with his blade; Komor Yala bent back with the suppleness of a breathing reed, an acrobat’s spine-curve move. Takyeo lunged again, meaning to drive the man into retreat, but a fiery nail tore into his side.

  Out of practice, he thought, but the pain was from the third assassin, the one in
the process of being unseamed by the Khir merchant. Blood flew, and the teaware seller, cowering in the ruins of a table, was screaming pointlessly.

  The last assassin had flung one of his knives, and such was the fury upon Garan Takyeo that he did not notice until he had the one before him spitted, Komor Yala letting out a small wounded cry as she was shoved aside and went down hard in a tangle of indigo silk, her hairpin knocked askew.

  The doughty merchant yelled something in Khir, more crockery shattered, and Takyeo’s body decided it had endured quite enough. He spilled from his feet, curling to the left around the knife half-buried in his gut, and his wounded leg gave a flare of hot snapping pain before his head hit the wooden floor and he saw constellations.

  CONSEQUENCES

  Lightning stabbed the hills around Khir’s Great Keep and its accumulated city; perhaps that was why the rumors flew from the stone halls of the noble quarter, through the artisans’ and theater districts, across the great mass of those not yet starving but clinging to poverty’s edge, and filled the slums. It even spread into the countryside past the city’s fringes, where the rai was almost ready for first harvest, its long grains swollen and almost, almost ripe.

  Nowhere was speculation more hushed or more rampant than within the Great Keep itself, where ministers came and went from the throne room, entering with apprehensive tranquility and leaving more often than not with the deep relief of those saved at the last moment.

  It had been a long while since Ashani Zlorih, Great Rider of Khir, had called each minister to give account. Such was the Rider’s prerogative, normally exercised only at the beginning of the reign but theoretically descending at any moment like the hooves of a war-trained steed. The Great Rider had also purged his personal guard of many who had divided allegiances— of course spring was the usual season for housecleaning and the greatest of the Khir had been otherwise occupied during that time, but still, ministers whose clients among the close-riders were suddenly forced into graceful retirement with the ancient gift upon the release of their service— a fine mare from the Great Rider’s own stables— had exchanged many a long searching look since the beginning of summer’s dry mountain-storms.

  Some families who had not seen the Great Keep for generations had been called to present what sons had escaped or survived military service to Khir’s ruler, and no few of those provincial nobles had been gifted with an iron stirrup to mark their acceptance into the ranks.

  None, not even the great Domar clan, dared make any remonstrance. For Ashani Zlorih had grown quiet of late, and there was a steely glint in his clear grey Khir eyes that warned ministers who knew their business to hold tongue and wait for better hunting weather.

  Chief among the wisely silent was Domari Ulo, who shook his head when approached— oh, carefully, to be sure, and with quite a few allusions to dignity, obedience, and loyalty that meant their exact opposite— by those unhappy at being removed from influence. The Rider has his reasons, the great head of the Domar clan would intone softly, and his slight smile led more than a few to believe the cat-faced, soft-walking, extraordinarily rich minister knew no few of those secrets— if not all, or at least more than his royal master.

  After all, it was the head of Hai Domari who held the honor of negotiating with the dough-skinned, reeking envoy from the Tabrak, though that barbarian had lately begun to visibly wish himself gone from Khir. Unfortunately, even a stirrup-holder to the leader of the Pale Horde must obey a host’s unwillingness to let a cherished guest embark again upon perilous travel.

  So it was no large surprise when the great minister appeared in his rich subtle robe and the great seal of his office as if for a garden promenade, gliding into the throne room with a determined step. One or two of his clients hurried from the antechambers, bearing great envelopes sealed with scarlet wax pressed with the Great Rider’s official seal, and if they did not stop to look at their patron it was only because the tidings were of such grave import as to forbid such a thing.

  Perhaps an answer had been given to Tabrak, some whispered. Others held their fans before their mouths and said nothing.

  The great hall of rule, its low padded throne-bench under the giant round stone calendar of the horse-goddess’s chosen folk, held half its usual crowd. Scribes bent over long low tables along one side, the feathers in their scholar-caps bobbing as they brushed, stamped, sealed, and stamped again great decrees. They had been busy, of course, for Khir was in a ferment.

  None wished for war again, of course. But the stain of defeat, and other reverses, must be washed away.

  Domari Ulo paused at the prescribed stations, bowing perfunctorily at each. His obeisances had grown a little more careless of late, perhaps because there were whispers in certain corners that the line of Ashani had expended itself and a new Great Rider should be chosen.

  A short while ago Hai Khir Ashani had been rich in heirs. The two legitimate sons were dead upon the battlefield at Three Rivers, disdaining to flee for their lives while the third, illegitimate offspring was dragged away by six strong close-riders sent for that express purpose.

  And the Great Rider’s only daughter, sent to Zhaon as tribute and surety for peace, was no more.

  Gossip ran rank and rife upon that matter, too. And upon the new alliance with Tabrak, all but assured. The wisdom of giving such barbarians the honor of alliance was debatable, but using them as a butcher’s blade to trim Zhaon’s fat was a seductive notion indeed. The dough-skinned barbarians’ new lord was rumored to be not of the stamp of his forefathers.

  “Ulo.” The Great Rider nodded as his chief minister halted before the throne. Close-riders gathered on either side of the dais and crowded its steps, some of them with the dazed look of the newly promoted, some familiar faces smiling with relief, their rank confirmed. Ministers were banished from the dais, gathered in a knot to Ulo’s left around a man he almost frowned to see among them.

  Domari Ulo cast a measuring look over the assembly, no doubt noticing quite a few of his protégés and clients were missing. “Great Rider of Khir.” His bow at the dais’s foot lacked nothing in depth or holding; to hurry through the stations of greeting your monarch could be permissible if you were simply eager to be in the presence that confirmed luck, wealth, and status to all below. In the august presence itself, decorum was safest.

  Especially if your monarch was in a mood that could only be called severe.

  With his obeisance accomplished, he straightened and waited to be beckoned up the stairs. Ashani Zlorih, however, stroked his cheek with blunt callused fingertips echoing the thickened ridges across his palm from reins and swordhilt. He was in full state, his dark silk robe figured with wheel-characters in bright crimson at hem, cuffs, and throat; the pointed slippers he wore were likewise heavily embroidered. A young scribe, the crest-feather upon his hat trembling, knelt at the king’s side holding a temporary desk piled with papers, inkstone, a few brushes gently swaying upon their stand, sticks of crimson wax ready to be pressed into service also vibrating as the leather strap about the lad’s neck communicated his joy or fear at being so close to the ruler of his homeland.

  Perhaps Ulo felt a sliver of unease then, for the king’s personal secretary was his creature. Now, however, the young lad Ganreni Taoyan— member of a junior branch of the Domar, of course— dared not look at his benefactor, instead blinking at Ashani Zlorih with an expression best described as penitent.

  “Did you think me unaware, minister?” The Great Rider said it softly, but his tone sliced through the mutter of scribes and the breathing of the assembled close-riders.

  Silence fell through the Great Hall.

  Domari Ulo affected astonishment, though it was probably closer to the truth than many other times his face had held the expression. “Unaware, Great Rider? Of what?”

  “My daughter is dead.” The king indicated the holding-desk, and the brushes upon it swayed as the scribe trembled afresh. The lad’s left hand was bandaged, probably from some mishap on the
training ground. Despite scribes needing flexibility in their fingers, it was unthinkable for a noble boy to not hold a sword; those who danced with brush instead of steel in their daily duties were to train twice as hard at sparring to make up for it. “My little Mahara, gone to Zhaon, is dead within a few moon-turns of her marriage.”

  It was no surprise, the news had reached them weeks ago. “My lord?” Ulo’s perplexity was either wholly feigned or short-lived, so Zlorih bestirred himself, selecting an already sealed scroll from the pile upon the shaking desk.

  The Great Rider handed the scroll to the close-rider at his right hand, a broad-faced youth with the clear grey eyes of a noble Zhaon but a crop of swelling pimples marring his temples and chin, speaking of sweat collected under a helm and blocking vital pores. It was probably an effort for Domari Ulo to remember the boy’s clan— it was Kinreni Shonih, the oldest boy in the cadet branch that would take over Hai Komor.

  Perhaps that was when Ulo thought upon Komori Dasho for the first time in a long while, the man found dead of old age near his fireplace, his seal missing and his iron neck finally bent. Perhaps Ulo was remembering Dasho’s only daughter, sent to Zhaon with Ashan Mahara; no doubt he considered that girl a milksop bitch mouthing the same platitudes as her “incorruptible” father.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, Domari Ulo began to feel uneasy at that moment.

  The lord of Ashani, the Great Rider of Khir, made a short movement, and the close-riders at Domari Ulo’s sides hurried to grab his arms. He shook them away, amazed at their daring, and froze when the Great Rider’s voice thundered through the throne room, ruffling the banners hung overhead, every noble family and clan represented in needlework upon scraps of cloth.

  “Accursed wretch!” Ashani Zlorih jabbed an accusing finger at his chief minister, the disdain in the gesture adding to the shock of its impoliteness. “My daughter is dead in Zhaon, and my last remaining son has disappeared as well. What say you to that?”